Nobody's ended the challenge yet, so I figure I'll post.
Um, there's a bit of Depot!Fraser at the end, but it's mostly about Fraser and his guitar. *points at icon* For obvious reasons. Three POVs, none of which are Fraser, observing Fraser's activities at various points in his life.
Gen (or maybe Bob/Caroline, for a bit, if you want it), 1778 words.
[Disclaimer: Fraser belongs to Alliance Atlantis, and he only plays guitar because Paul Gross does.]
Play It By Ear
Caroline tightens her arm around Ben's waist when he bends over the guitar, nearly toppling. "Careful, Ben," she warns him, but he pays her no attention. He's too busy trying to see if his fingers are positioned correctly -- he's so small that he can't see them if he sits up straight. By all rights, he shouldn't be trying to play at all -- he's only three. He's just a baby -- but obstinance doesn't seem to skip generations, and Caroline knows that he'd never believe that.
"E minor," Ben insists, as she pulls him back into her lap and adjusts the guitar strap around her neck. "E -- "
"E minor, yes," she confirms, though she knows he's just parroting. E minor means about as much to him as -- well, as G major does, really.
"Strum!" Ben instructs her gleefully.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes!"
"You're sure?"
"Yes!" As if to prove his point, he squeezes the fingerboard even harder. "Strum!"
"All right, then," Caroline says, and flicks the pick over the strings.
If Ben's ears weren't so sensitive, he wouldn't have heard the two dull plunks in the chord -- but they are, and he does, and his face falls. "It broke," he says sadly, hanging his head and letting go of the guitar.
Caroline squeezes him round his pudgy middle, feeling somewhat helpless -- he's just too small. He can't hold the strings down properly, because he's only three. She wishes he could understand that. "I know," she murmurs. "I'm sorry."
Ben leaps off of her, then, stomping off in a sulky manner; the guitar gets knocked off her knees, and swings around her neck to bang into the bedframe with a dissonant buzz. He's probably put it completely out of tune -- but then, she can hardly expect him to have respect for an instrument. Not at this age. In a few years, perhaps, they can try again.
Ben has stationed himself on his side of the general living area, sock-clad feet folded under him to conserve heat, second and third fingers inserted in his mouth to soothe them from their brief battle with steel strings, and right hand manipulating the pieces of his jigsaw puzzle. Buck'd brought it last Christmas, and Ben is still about three years too young to solve it. That never stopped him from managing, of course -- he's solved it countless times already, and by now the process has become more comforting than challenging.
Three or four years -- that'll set it right.
Bob's half-conscious, his face mashed into the coarse grain of their kitchen table. It smells like Caroline, and he's having difficulty ignoring that. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something tells him to move -- he'll be able to rest better if his nose isn't filled with the smell of musk ox stew, memories of countless arguments over whether she'd managed to perfect Mother's recipe.
It's no use, though; everything, absolutely everything reminds him of Caroline -- the stray curl of blue yarn on the floor, not three meters away from him. The inexpertly mended crack in the flooring, that he should've been here to fix properly. A partial boot print, too large to be Benton's, nestled safely in a corner, untouched by a cursory cleaning -- so he might as well stay where he is. Musk ox stew and -- buttermilk biscuits. Yes. Memories that aren't his, but memories nonetheless. They're good to taste.
And there's that infernal guitar again. He hasn't the energy to wonder where it might be coming from -- only the reflexive ability to realize that Caroline would have a fit if she heard this. Bob doesn't play, himself, but if there's one thing Caroline had taught him, it was to recognize bad playing. And it's just the same chord, over and over and over -- one of the minor ones, if Bob remembers his lessons correctly. At any rate, it's appropriate -- sadness, half-broken and half-wrong.
The chord repeats for what must be hours -- over and over and over, perhaps getting slightly cleaner. Of course, Bob doesn't really notice any of that until the chord changes. Truly terrible -- and a major chord, too. Splendid. If Bob had the strength, he'd have half a mind to go trounce whoever's abusing that instrument.
The chord sounds -- again, again, almost certainly sounding better. Bob grits his teeth and turns his face into the wood, enduring the whole business with little restraint and a good deal of sheer exhaustion.
And then the guitar goes silent.
And then -- only then -- does it occur to him that that must be Benton out there, playing the guitar as well as his fingers can manage, and that something must have happened to him if he's stopped. Hell, it's a wonder something hasn't happened to him before now -- no mother, father gone mad with the need for revenge, and only the occasional care provided by his father's partner, whom he'd never really known --
Bob's on his feet like a shot, leaving the table wobbling behind him as he dashes over to the other side of the cabin. The guitar -- bedroom, of course, it was Caroline's --
-- and then he's standing over their bed, looking down at the small figure curled up on it, around the guitar, fingers looking peculiarly dark with what might be -- blood, yes. Dabs of blood on the sheets from where Benton's fingers were a second ago. He's broken through the callouses on his fingers -- don't children know anything? Don't they at least know not to keep doing something if it hurts?
Absently, he lifts the guitar from in between Benton's limbs; Benton whimpers in his sleep, fists clenching feebly, but he doesn't wake. Bob sets the guitar down carefully -- Caroline wouldn't want the guitar damaged.
He's got to do something about this boy.
Ed stares at the wooden door, and resolutely fails to open it.
It is a very intimidating door.
"Come on, it's not like he's gonna kill you," Pete assures him, looking terrified. "Just -- go in, ask him for a towel. He'll probably just give you a towel."
"Sure," Ed agrees, not making any moves toward the door.
"And I've heard he's quite nice, really," Matt puts in uncertainly. "Once you, ah, get to know him."
"Right." Ed shrugs. "I'm not scared," he declares, not quite confidently.
The other boys don't challenge him on that. They just nod, acknowledging that no one here can possibly be scared of another boy their own age. Not really.
It's just the door, see. The door has the name "Fraser" tacked to it -- and it's not Robert Fraser, sure, but it's a Fraser. It doesn't really matter which Fraser. Frasers can tell what you've been at for the last twenty-four hours just by sniffing you. And if you've been somewhere you shouldn't, they don't think twice about turning you in. Real Mounties, Frasers are. Not that Ed's not gonna be a real mountie someday, but Fraser -- Fraser, he's already a Mountie.
"Well, go on, then," Pete urges, laughing boisterously and looking very worried.
"It's not even locked," Mark whispers. "He doesn't need to keep it locked."
"Okay," Ed says, working up his nerve. "Okay! I'm going in!"
"Okay!" Pete announces. "He's going in!"
Cat-quick, Ed grabs the knob, twists it, flings the door open, and shuts it behind him all in one smooth movement. He has no idea what he's going to do once he's in, but he's in fast, which is the point. Less contact time with the door, that way.
For a moment nothing happens. Then Ed opens his eyes.
Nothing continues to happen -- well, Fraser's sitting in his desk chair, plucking at a guitar. Which is basically nothing. "Uh," Ed says, and waits to be caught in the Fraser Glare of Lore.
Fraser doesn't even turn around. Well, then.
"Uh, Fraser?" Ed tries again. No response. Feeling very adventurous, he raises his voice. "Fraser, if I could have a word -- "
With a start, Fraser whirls around, looking a lot like somebody caught doing something illegal. Weird. "Ah. Good evening, Morrow." He puts the guitar down, almost furtively.
"Uh. Yeah. Good evening, Fraser. Do you have a towel that I could borrow?" Frasers like good manners, so why not? It's not like he's forgotten them, or anything.
"Ah, yes. Several. What size?"
"Oh, just a little one, really," Ed says, starting to babble. "There's a spill, you see, we just need to -- "
"Will this do?" Fraser hands him a towel, cutting off his rambling.
"Oh. Yes. Thank you," Ed stammers.
"You're very welcome," Fraser says graciously.
"Um." Ed doesn't know what to do know. He hadn't exactly planned an exit, but he can't just turn tail and run, can he?
Fraser clears his throat uncomfortably. "Ah -- is there anything else?"
"No. No! This is -- great. This is fine. I'll just -- be going, now." Ed grins widely, gropes for the doorknob behind him, grabs it.
"Ah. Good luck with the, ah, mopping, then."
"Yes, s -- uh, thanks, Fraser. See you around." And with that -- which is a fair way to end a conversation, isn't it? -- Ed yanks the door open, backs out, and slams it shut.
As soon as he's out, the boys on the other side -- normal boys, which is a relief -- immediately start yelling. From a couple of words here and there, he figures they want to know what happened. So he tells them. "He didn't do anything!" Ed shouts over them all.
"Nothing?" Pete looks skeptical. "No, I bet he figured out where you were last night -- "
"I was in bed last night!" Ed protests. "And besides, he didn't do anything. No, really -- he was just sitting there, playing this guitar. Kind of girly thing to do, if you ask me, but -- "
"Are Fraser allowed to be girly?" Mark wants to know, eyebrows raised.
"I dunno," Pete says. "I don't think -- "
"But he was playing a guitar!" Matt points out. "That's girly -- do you think he's really a Fraser?"
"Hey, that'd be a pretty stupid thing to do," Ed says doubtfully. "Impersonating a Fraser? They probably stick you on sentry duty for years -- "
"Then why," Matt demands, "was he playing guitar?"
For a while, nobody's got anything to say to that. And then Ed has to say it.
"I guess he's a fake, then. Got some nerve -- what should we do to him?"
--fin